


Reading And Watching

by cilceon



Series: Lying Eyes and Honest Hands [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:40:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27464329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cilceon/pseuds/cilceon
Summary: Now, Deacon would never out right say this. But he loved watching Wanderer read.His partner had gotten through the terminal with relative ease – no surprise there. But it had been a good hour since the start of that endeavor. Whatever she found; it gripped her attention with a ferocity she only had when reading prewar terminal entries.He watched her from the nest of a blanket he had distractedly crafted. Deacon’s intention was for her to lay down with the blanket and get the sleep she needed before her body gave out, but the second he saw her curled up in that busted up chair, shoulders scrunched up? He knew that wasn’t going to happen.His Wanderer had a way of well, wandering when she was reading. The look sparked the second her fingers found a terminal. But it was always overshadowed with determination, frustration, and the thrill of finally achieving what she wanted when she broke in.(Have you ever just...watched someone while they read something? You should give it a try, it's one of Deacon's favorite pastimes. Maybe he only enjoys it because its Wanderer that he's watching though.)
Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor, Deacon/Sole Survivor (Fallout)
Series: Lying Eyes and Honest Hands [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992751
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	Reading And Watching

**Author's Note:**

> I pulled some inspiration for this one from [this post](https://ohhoneybee3.tumblr.com/post/633923276460146688/deacon-sleep)  
> originally conjured up by [hotot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/profile)  
> (please give their works a gander, i love all of them)  
> I've been rewriting the stories from my first series, the base for this one can be found  
> [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24644314)  
> though its half as long and not nearly as pretty  
> I hope you like it!  
> -lyss

_“When Hades decided he loved this girl he built for her a duplicate of earth,  
everything the same, down to the meadow, but with a bed added.  
Everything the same, including sunlight, because it would be hard on a young girl  
to go so quickly from bright light to utter darkness. Gradually, he thought, he’d introduce the night,_

_first as the shadows of fluttering leaves._ _Then moon, then stars. Then no moon, no stars.  
Let Persephone get used to it slowly. In the end, he thought, she’d find it comforting” …_

_… “A soft light rising above the level meadow, behind the bed. He takes her in his arms.  
He wants to say I love you; nothing can hurt you. But he thinks this is a lie, so he says in the end  
you’re dead, nothing can hurt you, which seems to him  
a more promising beginning, more true.”  
\- Louise Glück -_

The apartment was a complete mess, to put it lightly.

From the outside the decomposing, boarded up windows and wood paneling - with its pealing, irritated paint, should have been enough of an indicator that inside of the home were the same as the rest of the wasteland.

Wanderer liked to keep an opened mind in these situations regardless. Maybe it was a crusted oyster with a beautiful pearl inside. At the very least, it would provide shelter from the onslaught of rain and the darkness of the surrounding night.

She was wrong, of course. The insides where just as destroyed, if not worse off.

Whatever doors once separated the rooms were gone. Most could be found a few feet into each room, succumbing to rot.

What could’ve once been a colorful patterned wallpaper, was turned yellow. The radiation had caused the glue and paper to bubble and chip – resembling cold cream cheese poorly spread over an equally cold bagel.

A thick layer of dust clung to every surface in sight, giving the place an atmosphere of an untouched tomb over failed breakfast attempt.

She felt as if they were intruding on something, like this was a monument to the family that had lived there prior. Though they were long dead- and no one remembered who they were.

It seemed like the house was a beast frantically tearing at its own skin. That it had decided to break apart on its own volition. It was not the outside world that had done this, but of a home no longer being loved eating itself.

There was a clatter from one of the bedrooms, she turned her head in the direction as Deacon’s voice called out. “Everything’s fine!”

His tone held the normal upbeatness, indicating that there wasn’t any danger beyond the clutter. Wanderer turned back to the coffee table and its contents.

Rusted cans and dusty bottles were scattered about the wooden surface on one side. Candle stumps had been shoved into the neck of two of the bottles, jutting out at different heights. The other side was piled with old newspapers and magazines. On closer inspection there seemed to be a gap between the folds, hinting that there was something shoved in between the papers.

Wanderer moved closer to the stack, examining it, picking up the newspaper closest to her and setting it on the couch, disturbing the dust on the cushion.

In front of her was a small hardback book, its cover almost faded but the embellishment could still be seen.

She flipped the book back and forth in her hands, it was light despite the weight of the words inside. It was a copy of Pride and Prejudice.

“You’ll break your back carrying worthless scrap like that around.” Deacon’s voice was no longer muffed from the other room. Instead, he was leaning against the moldy doorway leading to the living room, where she stood. His arms were folded over his chest, casualty.

“It’s a Jane Austen novel Dee, it’s far from worthless.” Wanderer clutched the book to her heart, protecting it from possible scrutiny. The dust from the cover clung to her shirt when she pulled it away. “I’m almost hurt that you of all people would say that.”

He shrugged, pushing away from the frame, deciding to inspect the desk in the corner of the room she had ignored till this point. The terminal sitting on it was covered in so much dust, it blended into the surrounding clutter. “Who’s that?”

She stared at his back a moment – blinking. The rain on the roof above them the only sound. “You can’t be serious.”

“You know me, Wands.” He flashed a smile over his shoulder before scooting the chair from the desk, leaning over the monitor. “I’m always serious.”

“She’s an author.”

“I gathered that much.”

Wanderer had taken an expository writing course for an elective in school way back when. The relief to be able to nip around Milton, and then duck under Blake to collapse gratefully into the arms of Jane Austen, was a comfort she missed.

“A really talented and amazing author.” Her cheeks were getting flushed, his lack of enthusiasm starting to drive her insane. “Like, honestly one of the bests? She wrote Sense and Sensibility, Emma, Persuasion…Northanger Abby.” She held the book up now wiggling it in his direction, “Pride and Prejudice.”

He moved back from the computer, dissatisfied with whatever message showed as it flicked to life. “Mhm, yeah. None of that rings a bell.”

Wanderer’s eye twitched. “Please say you’re messing with me.”

He turned around fully, a Cheshire cat of a smile under his glasses. “Would I ever?”

She took a deep breath and then a step towards him, brandishing the book like a bat. Upon approaching her friend, Wanderer held the novel up higher - thwapping him on the forehead with a gentleness that couldn’t possibly have hurt.

Regardless, he winched with a dramatic flair. “Oh, ouch!” He rubbed his forehead as if it were sore, voice reduced to a pout. “How could my little Wanderer wound me in such a fashion.”

What did he just call her?

 _His. Little. Wanderer_ _._

She shooed him away from the blinking screen of the terminal – desperate to avoid the thought trying to encroach its way inside of her.

“What’s got you so in a tizzy?” Wanderer patted the top of the box in question, agitating the grime that laid there.

He didn’t seem to notice her briskness of topic change. “Ah, you know how I am with popping these bad boys open.”

She nodded in understanding.

Deacon was a master of breaking and entering, a wonderful storyteller, and a good enough shot with a rifle to make MacCready worried about his job security. But hacking? No better at that than getting to the roof of a high building or convincing Glory to embrace him.

She supposed he couldn’t be good at everything. That was one of the aspects of their relationship that made them such a great team: What faults he had; she could pick up - just as he could do the same for her. When they ran jobs most of their communication was in subtle movements, it felt like they were almost dancing when in a firefight.

She set the book down on the desk, settling into the chair. It groaned in protest with her weight - threatening to collapse. A playful tisking sound left her, “Where would you be without me, huh?” She called out as Deacon left back into the bedroom, he was previously in.

On returning, he had a knitted throw blanket bundled in his arms and began examining the contents of the coffee table as she had done earlier. “Probably sleeping in HQ.” He yawned; she wasn’t sure if it was intentional. Now, he fished a lighter out of his jeans pocket, lighting one of the candles before returning it.

Clicking through a few console commands, the start of the bypass that needed…passing, was found. “It is past your bedtime.” She joked, eyes darting between keys and screen.

“You know how I get if I don’t get my beauty sleep.” She could hear him settling into the couch.

At the angle she was sitting, she could see him in her peripheral, spreading the relatively kept together blanket over himself. The purple of it a deep and rich plum. The colors didn’t belong with the muted tones of the room. “You want me to take first watch?” The words out of him were an afterthought; the man was already settled into the couch and as she swiveled to the side to fully look at him, the chair below her protesting.

Wanderer smiled softy, “But you look so cozy, how could I pull you from that.”

He returned the grin, wiggling farther into the couch.

“Besides,” She returned to the terminal, “You took first watch yesterday, it’s my turn.” She would’ve tried to convince him to sleep first regardless if that wasn’t the case. Even with the glasses, the dark circles under his eyes were more prominent than normal – they almost matched the shade of the blanket.

It wasn’t Desdemona that was working him so hard, but himself.

Deacon would run countless intel ops on the Brotherhood anytime he wasn’t by her side. He could be undercover for anywhere from a day to two weeks at a time. Wanderer was almost glad those weren’t the kind of jobs she did solo.

There were times she was with Preston in The Castle where she could have sworn he was a face amongst new recruits. But every time she’d turn to do a double take, the would-be Deacon was gone.

Her most treasured of friends was pushing himself too far and she was getting increasingly worried.

“How many hours on tonight’s menu?” He pulled the afghan around his chin, shoes peeking out on the other end.

 _Eight_ , she wanted to say. _Deacon, you need one damn night with eight hours of sleep_. He wouldn’t give himself the necessity turned gift. “That depends on the weather.” Maybe she could shove it to five or six, “Why don’t we start with four each and see if the rain worsens?” The voice in her head suggested that she pushed it. That she just didn’t wake him up at whatever mark was agreed upon and let him sleep.

Wanderer mentally slapped the proposition away.

An error flashed on the screen, taunting her with the message to try again. What on earth could warrant this terminal having such a convoluted password.

“I don’t know how you have the patience for those things, boss.” Deacon called from his makeshift nest.

“Well, you know me,” She paused a moment - suddenly pained with memory, “…I’ve got the patience of a saint.”

They both quieted after that, her attention turning fully to the terminal. His hopefully going to sleep.

She had noticed within the time they were together that this man wasn’t close friends with sleep. Her being his partner was probably just as much for his benefit as it was hers.

He just _didn’t sleep._

Her husband was a lieutenant in the military. She knew what forced sleep deprivation looked like in a man. It was a wonder Deacon didn’t die of a heart failure before they found each other.

Her eyes darted to him before going back to the keys. He looked like he was asleep, but the glasses hid whatever hint there’d be to it. Maybe that was why they were glued to his face? To hide his exhaustion?

Wanderer thought about letting him rest for longer than four hours. But again, she shoved it down.

It was one of their unspoken rules – whatever time was decided upon, was the time they would wake the other up. There was a certain kind of trust in having another keep you safe while you dreamed, a definitely in knowing when you’d wake in a world where alarm clocks weren’t common.

Now that she really thought about it, Deacon didn’t show signs of someone who went without sleep - not in the way her Nathan did.

Her husband had suffered from it when he returned home to her from his tours, she had studied up on it in hopes to be of some help to him.

After the first twenty-four hours, it’s supposed to be like being drunk. Bad coordination and a complete loss of shyness. Words that didn’t really make sense. That’s where Nate would be on his worst days, when he wouldn’t sleep - he’d never tell her why. He didn’t need to.

The nightmares debilitated him. Their ‘country’ took so much from him. The least they could do was leave his dreams alone. Let him have one moment of piece.

It was only once that he had gone over twenty-four hours. _Far over._ Nate’s mood was practically erratic and he was seeing things that weren’t there. It was the only time since they met as children, that Wanderer was afraid of her love. She had convinced him to lay down while she read to him, Shaun quietly in her arms, until he finally drifted off for almost twenty hours.

Her hand went to her bottom lip, fingers idly picking at the skin. Almost through the terminal…

Deacon was never like that, though. Not since she came along at least. He was always careful with his words, movements mulled over long before they were acted out. He had a sharp silver tongue and def hands.

She assumed everyone in the wasteland had some kind of instinct in their minds to handle the lack of sleep they were all getting. Some deep programing handed down from their ancestors.

Everyone was so hyperaware of the world around them, it left her falling behind. Deacon new it. A twinge of shame went through Wanderer, he had to practically babysit her. She was a twitchy little rabbit, him a hare who knew and saw everything, but the restlessness was in him as well – just handled better. Much better.

God, she could feel the scowl carving itself into her while she tried to think about how he was when they first met. Did he seem fidgety when they went to the Switchboard? Wanderer’s memory had been worsening since she came out of her freezer, she couldn’t remember.

A research paper came to mind now, one Nate’s therapist suggested she look into. Some kid back in the sixties stayed up for eleven days and twenty-five minutes before his body force quit on itself to make him sleep.

On the tenth day, the boy was able to beat one of the scientists watching in pinball. The next day he was asked to subtract a number from one hundred until he got to zero, at sixty-five, he forgot what he was doing.

While the guy was fine after the experiment, he experienced insomnia for the rest of his life. But she knew that if a person kept stressing themselves – they’d die. Countless doctors told her husband that with her at his side. She was worried Deacon was pulling the same thing.

The screen flashed in front of her, signaling that she finally won their little battle. She smiled in her victory and began scanning the files. Looking for some familiarity.

Suddenly yearning to read words from someone who spoke like her, who wrote about the things she was familiar with.

It was a single mother’s terminal by the looks of it, her diary tucked away inside. Should she read this? It was locked for a reason, after all. Wanderer shook her head slowly; the woman was long dead – she was honoring her in a way. Reading memories from so long ago.

She opened the first entry: _Harold Jamison if you’re reading this you better hope I’m not standing behind you, young man. – Mom_

A soft smile was reflected from her in the glass screen. Well she wasn’t Harold, sorry mom. Wanderer kept reading. Her name was Madeline Jamison, she was thirty-four and her son had just turned ten.

Shaun was ten…wherever he was.

Wanderer continued reading through the entries, distracting herself from her baby – from the ten years stolen. At least it wasn’t any more than that.

Her hand left the keys and went to her mouth to hide a gasp. Madeline was hard crushing on a guy from the office where they worked who was also divorced, he had been longer than she. Oh, this was going to be a fun read.

She shifted in the chair, causing it to groan again and her to wince and then immediately tense. Deacon was a light sleeper. The slightest sound woke him up and she had learned to be nearly silent in the last months.

She turned her head slowly, like it too could make sound.

The light the candle gave of letting her see enough to know he hadn’t moved since their conversation ended. Satisfied that her partner was still asleep, Wanderer returned to Madeline and the apparent date with Roger she was excited for.

-

Now, Deacon would never out right say this. But he loved watching Wanderer read.

His partner had gotten through the terminal with relative ease – no surprise there. But it had been a good hour since the start of that endeavor. Whatever she found; it gripped her attention with a ferocity she only had when reading prewar terminal entries.

He watched her from the nest of a blanket he had distractedly crafted. Deacon’s intention was for her to lay down with the blanket and get the sleep she needed before her body gave out, but the second he saw her curled up in that busted up chair, shoulders scrunched up? He knew that wasn’t going to happen.

His Wanderer had a way of well, wandering when she was reading. The look sparked the second her fingers found a terminal. But it was always overshadowed with determination, frustration, and the thrill of finally achieving what she wanted when she broke in.

Her slender, def fingers gliding over the keys as if they were dancing. Deacon though it was always endearing, the way all her fingers would flare out when her thumb went over the space bar. Like that one motion was a grand crescendo of her effort.

Sometimes, like right now, her hand would go to her mouth, thumb and forefinger picking at her lip in thought as she scanned the code.

His own hand twitched when she did that. What was Wanderer doing? Deforming her cleaver mouth like that. Deacon wanted to clasp her hand in the protection of his own, if only to stop the picking.

But just as soon as her fingers found her face, they’d shoot back to the keyboard. The answer she sought, found.

That’s when it set in, normally. The soft, sad expression.

When she read entries, she was connecting with someone she could have known. Deacon could tell those stories made her sad, they were actual people. Her people. They were more real to her then they could be to anyone else.

But it was when she was reading something that was set somewhere far away - somewhere different, that he really enjoyed watching her. The way she threw herself into the stories like she was really there. It was nice to watch her escape for a moment. To watch her return to the world she had before.

She was looking like that now. There must be a diary or something tucked away inside of it – she was enraptured.

Suddenly, Wanderer gasped, fingers going to her smile as she wiggled in her seat. The chair protested of course and squeaked with the moment.

He wanted to smile at the tension that zipped through her, but kept still. The sound was hardly louder than the rain on the roof yet her eyes darted to him; afraid he was woken maybe? The rest of her head followed. The lose bun of black hair on the back of her head swaying with the movement. Dark tendrils fell around her face and nape of her neck. Even in this light and with his glasses, Deacon could see the silver strands that weaved through it.

When she had first stepped out of the vault, there wasn’t a single gray – now there seemed to be another one each day.

How did she have so much hair? He’d only seen it down a handful of times, but with each, Deacon found himself just…staring at her. It looked so soft. He couldn’t think of the last time he saw someone with that long of hair. When down, the waves of black rested just below the small of her back.

Well it wasn’t really black. Wanderer’s hair was a deep brown, almost copper with sunlight. Like Desdemona’s coffee. He always hated the stuff, but now it reminded him of the woman sitting across the room from her – it made it easier to drink.

Content with the impression he was asleep, she turned back to the monitor. The green glow coming from it lighting her – bits of silver catching in the green.

A hand was propping up her chin, hiding her smile the words in front of her drew out. Somehow, Wanderer had managed to fold her legs underneath her in that rickety chair, her other arm rested contently in her lap.

It was moments like this where he remembered how much younger than him she was. How small she was for a woman who could kill anything in a hundred-foot radius of her. Wanderer wasn’t petite or fragile in anyway. She might have a decent chance against Glory in an arm-wrestling contest. She’d beat Drummer Boy, not sweat – maybe him too. Or at least, he’d let her.

She was small like she hadn’t ever worked a day in her life. Deacon supposed that was true, at least by the ‘wealth’s standards. Her heart and soul were practically made of soft gold. The callouses of her hands were virtually nonexistent, hardly a scar on her compared to the average wastelander. He was keen to keep it that way.

Now her shoulders hiked up, face drawing closer to the letters. In the verdant light, he could see a blush settling ever-so lightly across her cheeks and nose. He held himself from raising an eyebrow. What was she reading? A half-written romance novel? He thought the book was on top of the terminal, not inside of it.

Whatever it was, it had her in a fluster. She didn’t really know how to handle steamy moments did she? He thought back to times when they were in Goodneighbor, where couples were getting a little too handsy in alleyways and she’d look away quickly, cheeks dusting with rose. Or how quick she was to anger when a caravan guard in Bunker Hill said something to her that really shouldn’t be said to a woman.

Goosebumps threatened his arms at the thought of Hancock ever getting her alone. A cracking sound went off below her, tearing him from the looming thoughts of the ghoul.

Wanderer’s eyes shot forwards in confusion before – very quickly – shifting to a squint of disappointed resignation. She sighed, shoulders dropping.

The chair gave way, taking her with it.

Before he even realised, he was moving and at her side.

-

The second she hit the dusty floor, Deacon already had a hand under her arm, helping her stand. “Are you alight?”

She looked up from the heap that used to be a chair before peering up at him, words lost.

One of his hands was holding her elbow and, in the jostle, her flannel had shifted and now the shoulder the other hand rested on was bare. Only the warm of Deacon’s hand covering it.

Her own hands rested on his chest, it had to be her own pulse she was feeling in her palms, it was stammering. The only sound was the rain outside and the blood rushing through her.

Wanderer glanced up to him. They were so close – she could feel his breath ghosting across her skin. Deacon’s expression was blank, curious if anything. But she could see her reflection in black of his glasses.

She looked like a scared little rabbit. Maybe as a distraction, she wondered how similar the mouth in front of her was to the first one he had.

Wanderer couldn't help it, her eyes shifted from the reflections of her own down to his mouth before snapping back up to the glasses.

But it was too late. If she had caught the movement herself, of course he would have as well. Wanderer had to be imagining it, she could have sworn the grip on her skin tightened ever so gently. That the beating under her palms quickened.

“Wanderer?” His voice had a huskiness in it, probably from just being woken. Deacon didn’t move. Neither did she.

A second went past, then another. And another. They just stared at each other – mouths slightly parted.

It was barely of movement, but Deacon tilted his head to the side. She would bet all the money in the world that he was about to lean forwards when a roar of thunder sounded from outside, lurching them apart.

And just like that he was moved away from her. Why did Wanderer feel disappointed? “I'm- I'm sorry I woke you up.”

“Don’t worry about it, buddy.” He shifted towards what was left of the chair, facing away from her. “How’s your tooshie.”

“I think it’ll make it.” She stood there, watching the tension in the muscles of his back under his tee-shirt. “It picked a good time to give out.” Wanderer gestured to the chair, though he couldn’t see her movement.

“Did it?”

“Uh yeah. I just got through the last entry.”

“What were they about?”

The air around them had stiffness she wouldn’t associate with him. A moment ago, she felt like she was on fire and now it was like… she stepped into a freezer. Wanderer shivered involuntarily. Deacon stepped over the chair, his hands going to the pockets of his jeans as he leaned over the last entry of Madeline’s diary.

“It was a woman’s journal. She had an office romance with one of her coworkers.” Her voice got small. “They had one of their dates scheduled for the day the bombs fell…”

“Timing’s a hell of a thing, huh?” Deacon stood up to his full height, taking a hand from his pocket and picking up the book she’d forgotten on top of the terminal. He held it in his hands, examining it.

“You can have it if you want.” She pushed away the whisper in her tone, “The book I mean.”

He turned around, looking at her. “You were so excited ‘bout it boss. Now your tossing it to a charity shop?”

“You’re not a charity shop.”

“You’re right. I’m more of an antique curator.” He paused a moment, a mischievous smile tugging at him, “Now that I think about it, I guess you’re the antique.”

Should she be offended by that? Wanderer settled on a soft, “Huh?”

Deacon shook his head, the smile not leaving. “Was a joke, Wands.”

She smiled back to him, not really understanding, and walked to the couch he abandoned in her rescue. “I think you’re losing your edge.” She sat down on one side of it, giving him room to join her. Which he did, the cushions shifting with his weight. “Have you read it before?” Wanderer gestured to the Jane Austen novel still in his hands.

Deacon shrugged, his shoulder brushing against hers. “I don’t think so.” As it normally was, she couldn’t tell if he was being honest in his answer.

Wanderer shifted, pulling the blanket out from under her before flowing it on top of both of them, the majority resting on him. It was a nice blanket, maybe she should take it with them.

That faint, curious look was back on his face. “Give it here.” She held out her hand for the book.

He did so without question, “I thought it was a gift.”

“It is.”

The expression didn’t leave him as she looked down to the book, warm from where he had held it. The light from the candle paired with the still turned on terminal across the room was just the right amount light to read by.

“Well? Get comfy.” Wanderer flipped to the first page.

“Wands?”

She put her hand on the page, looking up at him. “I’m reading to you, Dee.” The words were said like they were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re still supposed to be asleep. So, get comfy.” She repeated, returning to the print.

He leaned back into the couch, legs stretching out and arms folded, complying. Deacon exhaled slowly, settling into himself for what looked like the first time in a while.

Maybe Pride and Prejudice wasn’t the best book to read aloud to him, given both their backstories but nevertheless she began: _“It is a truth universally acknowledged…”_


End file.
